Page 42 of Drawing Home
Bea followed a gravel path, stopping to admire a large metal bell planted near the front of the house. The plaque below it readHISTORIC BELL: UNION FREE SCHOOL, 1871.She reached out and tapped the antique metal.
Then she made her way up the steps to a dark porch. The house, with its wood shingles and peeling paint and layers of dust, seemed to be a building that time forgot. How intriguing!
“Welcome, come on in,” said a booming voice as the front door opened. The ceilings were low, the interior light dim. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and still more time for her to place the man standing in front of her. He was decidedly familiar. And then she realized: she’d seen him at the house!
“You,”she said, walking deeper into the room. She stood by a fireplace and crossed her arms. “What are you people? Some sort of cabal?”
“Nice to see you again too, Ms. Winstead,” the man said, seeming somehow amused.
“I wish I could say the same. Who are you, exactly?”
“Angus Sinclair. We weren’t properly introduced at the house. At any rate, I’m in charge of day-to-day operations here at the historical society and museum. What brings you here this morning?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she snapped. “I assume, since you were withthat womanatmyhouse, that you are a party to this attempted theft?”
He smiled, maddeningly, and shook his head. “I don’t know anything about a theft, Ms. Winstead. But Emma Mapson was kind enough to take me in a few years ago when I became a widower. So, yes, I have been around to witness the events that have recently transpired. If that makes me a party to the situation, then I’m guilty as charged.”
These people had an answer to everything, she thought. She had half a mind to walk right back out the door. But if this man was close with Emma Mapson, he must have known Henry. And if he knew Henry, there was a very good chance there were drawings on the premises.
She walked around, taking in the odd assortment of bric-a-brac. To a casual observer, most of it would look like junk. But she had a trained eye and knew valuable furniture when she saw it.
“Is that a Dominy chair?” she said.
Mr. Sinclair nodded. “That’s correct. And over in that corner is an original Tinker chair. Dating back to 1850.”
“I’m not familiar with Tinker furniture.”
“Really?”
Why did he seem so surprised? “Yes, really. I’m in the art business; I’m not a furniture dealer.”
“Nathan Tinker built the original brick building that today houses The American Hotel. This was back in 1824. He was a wholesale furniture dealer and made his own furniture as well. He lived in the top area of the building, and his workshop and storefront were on the ground floor.”
Bea hated to take the bait, but she loved history. There were many times over the years when she’d felt insecure about not having a college degree, and she seized every opportunity she had to learn something.
“So when, exactly, did he turn it into a hotel?”
Mr. Sinclair moved the Tinker chair across from his rocking chair, invited her to sit, and settled in himself. One of the many upsides to spending time with people her own age, she thought as she sat down, was that they understood the body had its limits.
“In the 1840s, he operated a boardinghouse for men working in the whale trade,” Angus said. “The American Hotel as we know it today didn’t come until later. There was a fire in town around 1877 that destroyed most of the houses, but the Tinker building was left standing because it was brick. By this time, Nathan Tinker had died, and his son had had enough of the building. It was purchased by a man named Addison Youngs and his father-in-law, Captain William Freeman, for the hefty sum of two thousand dollars. They decided to turn it into an inn: The American Hotel.”
She shook her head. “Amazing. For two thousand dollars.Nowthat gets you, what, a weeklong stay there?”
“Well, they took out a loan of another two thousand dollars from Riverhead Savings and Loan. We have the paperwork here in the archives. Then Youngs and Freeman went about the work of installing gas, electricity, and indoor plumbing in the building.”
“What do you think the hotel would sell for today?” Sitting there, she had the impulse to buy it. Take that, Jack Blake! She could fire Emma Mapson herself.
Mr. Sinclair shook his head. “We’ll never know. Not as long as Jack Blake is alive, anyway. When he bought the place in 1972, it was in total disrepair. Everything you see today—that’s Jack’s vision. It’s his baby.”
Bea cared not one whit about Jack and his baby. She had her own baby to worry about. She stood slowly, stretching her back, and wandered the room.
“I’m looking for any Henry Wyatt drawings. I’ve learned he gifted some of his work around town during the past year, and I’m wondering if your little organization here was the beneficiary of his largesse.”
“As a matter of fact, Henry did donate some of his work to us over the years.”
“Great. I’d love to see them. Please, lead the way.” She tried not to sound impatient but was aware she failed utterly.
“We don’t keep them here.”
